Chapter Text
If he had to guess, Alex would have said that, had he not died on an aeroplane when Alex was 14, Yassen Gregorovich would have spent the last six years on private islands, shagging Bond girl types and playing poker with criminals. It’s what Alex would have done, had he worked for a decade and a half in the lucrative world of assassination, and been unable to make friends due to his inability to share his feelings without the threat of imminent death to bring them out.
As it turns out, though, Yassen Gregorovich had taken to the dubious world of bank robbery. Which, to Alex, made absolutely no sense.
Alex was a bit shocked when, while waiting for a meeting with an advisor, a group of youngish men stormed in with guns. He wasn’t shocked by the guns - they were an everyday part of his life in recent years - or the Halloween style masks they each sported; he just didn’t think people still did stuff like that. It didn’t seem like a sensible way to make money, because surely everything was digital now anyway. And there were five of them. Surely, for their share of the profits, they’d earn more by just getting a job?
Alex wasn’t sure of the etiquette here. He worked for MI6, so law enforcement wasn’t really his responsibility. It was a totally acceptable option just to obey the instructions of the men with guns and wait it out. But these guys were total bloody amateurs; they were quoting films and laughing. One had drawn a penis on the partition in permanent marker. The whole thing was totally bloody ridiculous. As he lay down on the floor with the other straggle of customers (mostly old people who had repeatedly told him that they didn’t trust computers while waiting in the queue), the thought occurred to him that amateur was bad. Amateurs could get people killed.
He knew he had to play this carefully. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think he could take out five people with guns when the deadliest thing in his possession was his debit card, but he’d been in trickier situations. He needed to wait for an opportunity to act.
He watched them strutting about, demanding cash, pointing guns at people. There had probably already been some sort of silent alarm, and the cashier had disappeared. Alex didn’t know if that was because they were obeying the demands, and getting cash, or if they were hiding somewhere until the police arrived. He waited until the gang’s backs were to him, and then he put his hands on the floor ready to jump up.
He’d miscounted the gang. He’d barely lifted his head when he felt a cold metal circle press against his neck.
“Stay down, Little Alex,” said a quiet, calm voice behind him.
The chill of the weapon alone would have sent Alex’s heart racing, but the voice that accompanied it might as well have been a bucket of freezing water. It clashed with the stupidity of the gang, being so calm when they were half crazed, so in control, so understated, and the recognition sent a wave of emotions through Alex that was so strong, he couldn’t move for full seconds.
He managed not to say ‘you’re supposed to be dead’ because clearly Yassen Gregorovich wasn’t dead. But what he should say temporarily eluded him.
“Hush,” said the voice. “Don’t draw attention to either of us. Stay down, stay quiet, and it will all pass.”
Alex didn’t dare turn. If he turned, and it wasn’t Gregorovich, he’d be so disappointed. Could someone else have mimicked his voice? Was someone else likely to use that name for Alex? Was it a dream?
“I…”
He was interrupted. One of the idiots who had previously been throwing their weight around suddenly shouted; “Taking a hostage?”
“No,” Yassen replied quickly. “Take the money and run.”
The idiot actually blew a raspberry. “You’re no fun.”
Alex heard Yassen take a deep breath in, and let it out slowly. “We stick to the plan.”
Alex heard the ‘or else’, but apparently the idiot didn’t. “Oh, come on, you can take that one, and I’ll take that girl with the big tits.”
One of the hostages, a quiet young woman who Alex thought might be a carer, shifted on the ground, as though she could find a way to hide her body better.
“No!” said Yassen. It would take a stronger man than the idiot to stand up to that tone, but he still huffed a little. “Take the money,” Yassen ordered. “And then we run.”
The money had arrived. A nervous looking clerk was holding a small bag of notes. It was a pathetic reward for the crime, for the prison risk that this carried. The whole situation was so stupid, Alex half though he must have imagined the whole thing. Why on Earth was Yassen Gregorovich involved with such amateurs? A few grand split six ways surely wasn’t worth Yassen’s time?
The idiot who had challenged Yassen held out his hand for the bag, which was handed over with no other words. The idiot laughed loudly, pure delight at his success, but Yassen’s fee surely had to be three times what was in that bag. What the hell was going on?
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the idiot sang, and his friends laughed like it was the best joke in the world. He was presumably in charge, Alex thought. A boorish white man in his early twenties with a London accent that didn’t ring true. “Thank you for your cooperation. Now, unless you want a bullet in the head, stay exactly how you are for at least 5 minutes. See that clock? When the big hand’s on the ten, you’re free to move.”
Just like that, they were going. Yassen Gregorovich was about to walk out, while Alex had had no questions answered. The idiots cackled like hyenas, and high fived each other, as they walked out of the bank and down the street. The other customers remained like statues, not even daring to move, but to Alex there was something worse than the threats. He couldn’t let Yassen Gregorovich go. He couldn’t let the man who killed his uncle but loved his father walk out of his life, vanish into the vastness of the world.
He didn’t know what he would do with Yassen, even if he did catch up, but the gang were barely out of sight when Alex was on his feet. He ignored the quiet protests of the customers, and sprinted out the door in foolish pursual of an armed assassin.
He caught sight of them, getting down the street at a fast pace, laughing like it was all a huge joke, and Alex broke into a run to catch up.
The gang turned left, down an alley that linked the high street to a side road. That road likely had no CCTV, and the gang would be able to de-mask and vanish into whatever vehicle they had stashed away. It was entirely possible that the vehicle would be untraceable after that, and Alex would never set eyes on Yassen Gregorovich again.
He sped up, turned the corner still at a run.
And stopped at a sudden pain to his neck. And dropped to the floor, as though all his bones had suddenly vanished.
Yassen Gregorovich had seen his pursuit coming. He’d waited, just inside the opening of the alley, and struck with perfect precision and timing. Alex’s whole body lost all feeling, and he was left prone and vulnerable.
Gregorovich had not removed his mask, but seeing his eyes, watching the finesse of his body, that familiar dancer’s grace, made Alex completely certain. Yassen Gregorovich, or his reanimated corpse, was looking down at him in a small alley off a London high street, having just robbed a bank with a band of total idiots.
Out of breath and overwhelmed, Alex’s words came out slowly.
“What… the… fuck?”
Yassen snorted. “You were told to stay where you were,” he said. “Now you have no choice.”
“Yass…”
Yassen crouched down. “Hush, little Alex,” he said. “I shall come back for you.”
Alex couldn’t make his limbs do anything, so when Yassen stood up straight and vanished from Alex’s sight, he could do nothing. He was stuck, looking at the grey sky through the narrow gap in the buildings.
“Who is that?” a voice asked, Alex suspected the same idiot who had seemed in charge of the gang of idiots.
“Nobody,” said Yassen. “Someone who thinks he’s a hero. Don’t worry about it.”
A masked face appeared in Alex’s vision. Through holes in the plastic, pale eyes locked with Alex’s, curious, until he was suddenly dragged away.
Alex, helpless on the ground, had never had so many questions.
…
“Yassen Gregorovich?”
Mrs Jones had repeated the name half a dozen times. I wasn’t that she didn’t believe Alex, exactly, it was just that it was pretty unbelievable.
“Yes,” said Alex.
“But… he died, Alex,” she said. “Are you sure it wasn’t someone who looked like him? It’s been nearly ten years and you were very young…”
“He killed my uncle, nearly killed me, saved my life, got shot to protect me and then confessed his undying love for me. I’m not going to forget his face!”
Mrs Jones sniffed. “Was it undying love or just an ongoing affection for your father?”
“He’s pretty carved into my brain is my point,” Alex insisted.
Mrs Jones tapped her fingers against the desk, thoughtfully. “If he did survive…”
“I’m telling you…”
“Fine, let’s say he survived, where has he been? Let’s not even go into the how, why didn’t he just return to Scorpia? He could have…”
She stopped. Alex finished for her.
“He could have stopped me taking them down? Unless that was what he wanted.”
Mrs Jones’ gaze was no longer on Alex. She was thinking. “If he chose to bring down Scorpia, or at least not protect Scorpia, maybe…” She paused, her eyes returning to Alex. “Can you imagine how useful he could be to us, Alex?”
“Wait,” said Alex, “Are you saying that if Yassen Gregorovich is alive…”
“Hypothetically,” Mrs Jones inserted.
“Are you hypothetically saying that if Yassen Gregorovich is hypothetically alive, you want to… recruit him?”
“Well,” said Mrs Jones. “If he wants to work against the evil mad people who are constantly trying to take over the world or destroy a continent…”
“He’s hardly got any loyalty to the UK,” said Alex.
“No but has he got loyalty to… someone in the UK.”
Alex blinked. Then blinked again. “I … are we getting ahead of ourselves?”
Mrs Jones looked thoughtful again.
“We don’t even know if that’s what happened,” said Alex.
“Of course, this is all hypothetical,” said Mrs Jones.
“Right,” said Alex.
“I just think, that should Yassen Gregorovich hypothetically show himself to you again… maybe you could … test the water?”
“Test the water?”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“I know it’s a metaphor,” said Alex, “I didn’t think there’d be actual water involved, I just wanted you to clarify exactly what you want me to do.”
“Alex,” Mrs Jones made full eye contact, “When dealing with matters of the heart, no prescribed party line will do. If Yassen Gregorovich turns up at your door, you need to read him, you need to figure out exactly how he feels about you, and you need to find out what he wants to hear.”
Alex didn’t break the eye contact. “That’s a bit of a big flipping ask.”
“Hypothetically,” said Mrs Jones.
“Hypothetically,” Alex repeated. “If Yassen Gregorovich turns up at my door.”
“If Yassen Gregorovich turns up at your door.”
Alex snorted. There was no way Yassen Gregorovich would turn up at his door.
…
In some ways Alex was right. Yassen Gregorovich didn’t turn up at his door. He turned up in the living room.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Alex shouted at the sight of him.
“No,” said Yassen Gregorovich. “Yassen Gregorovich.”
Alex stared at him. Without the mask, there was no chance he was mistaken. Yassen Gregorovich was not dead. He was standing beside Alex’s sofa, wearing dark clothes, and holding hands behind his back.
“What, is this the next career?” said Alex. “Is it a promotion or a demotion? Assassin to bank robber to house breaker?”
Yassen hummed quietly. “Meanwhile, your career has gone from strength to strength, I see,” he said.
Alex couldn’t tell if that was sarcasm or not. He’d achieved a lot, he knew. The numbers of people saved by Alex had been pretty high when he was 14, it was now most of the world’s population, maybe twice over. He decided to ignore the words.
“I’ve got so many questions,” he confessed. “Are you here to answer them or… or to threaten me… or…”
Yassen shrugged. “What would I threaten you for? You already told MI6 I am alive, I assume.”
“Yes,” said Alex. That didn’t answer the question he’d been too scared to ask.
“I’m not here to hurt you, Alex,” said Yassen. “It had been my intention never to see you again.”
“But why were you robbing a bank?” Alex asked. He still couldn’t believe it. It was like seeing Yassen on a charity fun run. It just seemed impossible.
“I was paid to be there,” said Yassen.
“By who?” Alex asked. “Who paid you to rob a bank? They took, what, ten grand? Who pays an assassin to do that?”
“Someone very rich,” said Yassen. “I will not answer questions about my employer to an MI6 agent.”
“Then why are you here now?” Alex asked.
Yassen didn’t answer for long moments. “Would you prefer it if I had not come? If I had left you wondering if I were alive or if you had dreamed me?”
“No, but…” Alex was lost. How was this man who he’d met a handful of times over the space of a few months making his brain so tangled? What did he even want from this conversation? Weirdly, it was Mrs Jones’ suggestion that wormed its way to the top, and Alex blurted out; “Do you want to join MI6?”
Yassen put his head to one side. “Do I what?”
“Do you want to…” Alex couldn’t repeat the question. “I mean, if you wanted me to destroy Scorpia, and you were thinking… I don’t know, of new careers. Saving lives.”
“Is that what you do, Little Alex?” Yassen asked.
“Well, yes, actually,” said Alex. “Like, a lot.”
Yassen hummed again. It might have been a laugh. “I do not want to join MI6,” he said. “I did not particularly want you to destroy Scorpia. In fact, you destroying Scorpia has been uniquely inconvenient for me.”
“Oh,” said Alex.
Yassen sighed. “You are changed in many ways, Alex Rider,” he said. “You are grown now. You look much like your father.”
Alex had no response to that. He didn’t know if it was a compliment or not.
“You should not waste your life chasing shadows,” said Yassen. “It is not what your father wanted.”
“I’m not chasing shadows,” Alex protested. “I’m protecting people.”
“Your father faked his death so you wouldn’t have to live like this.”
Alex didn’t know where to look then. “So … you know my father wasn’t like you? That he lied? That he was a mole.”
Yassen nodded. “He still saved my life. He still cared for me. He was a good man. I do not forget that.”
“Yassen…” Alex didn’t know how to say it; that he could say the same about Yassen. Different sides but still tied together by something like love.
A quiet buzzing sound interrupted him. Yassen swore in Russian and tore a phone from his trouser pocket. Then he swore again. He pressed the green button and snapped “Wait,” then ended the call.
“I don’t intend to see you again, Alex Rider,” he said.
And then he left. Through the front door.
Alex regretted not following more than anything he’d done in years.
…
Mrs Jones took the news of Yassen’s rejection of the offer with a nod. “It was a long shot,” she said. “Did you get any information on what he was doing?”
“No,” said Alex. “He refused to answer questions about his employer.”
Mrs Jones nodded again, as though this was exactly what she expected, but then she pulled a face. “Why on Earth is one of the world’s most successful assassins, with his reputation, robbing a high street bank?”
“He said because he was paid to,” said Alex. “So… part of a longer plan?”
“Maybe… someone trying to take out the competition? Trying to destabilise the economy?”
“Have there been others?” Alex asked.
Mrs Jones turned to her computer, and performed what Alex assumed was a quick search through the crime reports over recent weeks. “No,” she said. “Bank robberies are actually decreasing.”
“How about the guy who was in charge?” Alex asked. “There must have been CCTV, can we trace him?”
They watched the CCTV of the bank during the robbery, then some from nearby shops trying to catch a sight of the young men without their masks, but there were no decent images of any of them. They may have seemed like idiots, but they knew where the CCTV was and they new how to avoid it. They knew how long they had, and how to make a clean get away. It explained Yassen’s presence from their point of view – a professional who could get in and out of high security buildings without a shadow of a trace. It didn’t explain why they were using his expertise for petty crime, or why Yassen would agree to it.
…
Alex tried to stay home for a really long time. He didn’t leave the property for more than a week. It was foolish – Yassen had said he wouldn’t see him again, so there was no way he’d just show up on the door step – but Alex was hopeful anyway.
Eventually, he was forced to go and buy some groceries or eat the mouldy onion at the bottom of his fridge accompanied by a tin of baked beans from 2014. He rushed over to the supermarket and began shoving essentials into a trolley (he didn’t want to come out again for a few weeks). He barely stopped for breath as he raced around, focusing on tinned foods, until something made him stop. It was a newspaper.
The headline was ‘Night Club Terror’. The only photo was a grainy image of four of five of youths in masks, a still from a CCTV, taken in darkness so it was only the grainy outline of the figures, but there to the side of the gang was one stiff person, also masked, and Alex knew he was kidding himself now. No one could recognise their best friend from a photograph like that, except Alex just knew.
He shoved the paper in the trolley too, and practically threw everything at the unfortunate assistant at the tills in his urgency to get home. When he did, he read the article, standing up in the hall way.
He read it twice. It made no sense.
Six armed men had gone into one of the hottest nightclubs in Soho, taking the bouncers hostage when they had tried to stop them entering. They’d locked the doors and taken the phones off everybody in sight, so no one could go for help. But then they’d just danced. They’d made all the men sit around the edges, and made all the girls dance with them, and hadn’t paid for a single drink, but…
There was no theft. According to the article, though the girls had been terrified, expecting the worst, no one had been hurt. There were no hostage negotiations, no ransoms demanded. Except for about eight hundred pounds of booze, there was no profit to the venture. It was like they were just doing it for fun.
Six armed men, mostly aged between twenty and thirty with one who could have been older, according to the article, took hundreds of people hostage for no good reason.
Alex was completely bemused.
…
“Do you think they’re practicing for something?” Alex asked. “Like, these are hostage situations that are training them up for something big?”
Mrs Jones thought about it with fingers drumming steadily against her desk. “It would be a big risk,” she said. “If they were arrested during these, then whatever larger plan they had would be over. If even one of them is arrested, the plan is at risk. And it just brings them to everyone’s attention. MI5, us, the police, they’ve put themselves on our radar.”
“Maybe they don’t consider you a threat.”
“Maybe,” said Mrs Jones. “Still risky. We’ve had our successes. But there’s always a cockiness to people who can afford the services of someone like Yassen Gregorovich, so … maybe they’re underestimating us.”
It didn’t quite ring true.
“Maybe it’s a misdirect,” said Alex.
Mrs Jones sighed, and Alex agreed with the sentiment. If the intention was to make them look one way, then they needed to look the other. But there were an infinite number of other directions to look. Which way should they be looking?
…
Alex was trying to make a map of all the possible crimes that could be connected back to Yassen’s gang. There were a few that could have been the same gang – petty thefts, short lived hostage taking, stupid pranks that had involved a gang described in a way that could have been the same people.
It was giving Alex a headache.
What sort of criminal gang could hire Yassen Gregorovich? It was usually psychotic billionaires. Not that psychotic billionaires couldn’t also be criminals, indeed, as far as Alex could tell, there was a certain link between the accumulation of wealth and dubious morals, but usually people who managed to make themselves billionaires had the ability to hide their criminal tendencies.
So maybe, the gang weren’t in charge. Maybe they were doing the work for someone else.
But that made less sense – if you had Yassen Gregorovich in a team, wouldn’t you make him team leader? That hadn’t been the dynamic at the bank.
He’d pinned a picture of the guy who had behaved like he was in charge at the bank – the one who had done most of the shouting – on the living room wall. The only photo they had was of his mask, but Alex had looked at the picture for a long time, anyway, trying to read what he could. He knew the guy was white, and he knew he was probably under thirty-five and over eighteen. It was barely anything to go on. He’d probably narrowed it down to about quarter of the population of London. But he didn’t know if the guy was from London.
While Alex’s mind was readily falling through increasingly unlikely possibilities, he heard the doorbell. Answering it seemed more helpful than looking up online clubs for assassination fans, so he did.
In the doorway stood a young man. Alex would have guessed his age as slightly older than himself, but definitely under thirty. His thick hair was stylishly swept to the side, and he was wearing a shirt and tie.
He looked at Alex and something in his expression changed. It had been bored, but Alex saw the slight twitching of his cheek, the focus in his eyes.
“Hi,” said the man.
“Hello,” Alex replied, then waited for a moment.
“Sorry,” said the man. “I was distracted. Everyone else has been over fifty.”
Alex gave what he hoped was a questioning look.
The man shook his head, “Sorry, I’m not making any sense. Um, I’m just moved to the area, and I was … hoping to meet people.”
“Oh,” said Alex. “Um, welcome.”
Alex looked the guy up and down. He must be doing well for himself to be able to afford a place in Chelsea.
“Thanks,” said the guy. “So, I’m Henry. I just moved in down the road. And… I wonder if I could use your loo?”
“Oh, um…” said Alex.
“I know, I know, I just – the plumber has turned off all the water while he does… I don’t know, something, and… you know… I don’t know how long it’s going to be. I promise it’s a number one.”
Alex laughed. “Um, OK,” he said. “It’s just up the stairs, second door.”
Henry grinned, and stepped over the threshold. Alex backed up and let him in.
“Have you lived here long?” he asked. “You’ve done it nice.”
“Uh, yeah, since I was a baby,” said Alex.
“Oh, you live with your parents?”
“No, I … um inherited it when my uncle died. It’s just me now.”
“Wow,” said Henry, “Sorry about your uncle.”
“Yeah,” said Alex, “It was ten years ago now.”
Henry nodded. He had made no move to go upstairs. “Were you close?”
“Um… so it’s just…” Alex pointed up the stairs. He wasn’t about to start talking about Ian Rider.
“Yeah, sorry,” said the guy. “That was a bit personal from a guy you just met.”
“Yeah,” said Alex. “A bit.”
“Look, I know I’m being a bit weird,” said Henry. “I just don’t know anyone around here, and I don’t suppose you want to go for a drink or something?”
Despite the weirdness of the situation, Alex considered it. The guy wasn’t bad looking, and it had been a while. And him fancying Alex would explain the weird looks and the poor social skills. But Alex hadn’t managed a proper relationship. Ever.
“Probably a bad idea,” said Alex. “You don’t need to be involved with my shit.”
“Your shit?” Henry asked. “You’re not so young, free and single then?”
“Um…” Alex was regretting letting the guy in. “It’s complicated. The toilet’s upstairs.”
Henry smiled. “Sorry, another personal question,” but he didn’t sound sorry. “You can’t blame a guy for trying, though.”
Alex nodded. His body was reacting to a threat that wasn’t there – his feet had found the stance learned long ago in karate lessons, he was assessing exit routes and checking Henry for hidden weapons, which was crazy. It was just a guy trying his luck.
“I think you need to go,” said Alex, quietly.
“Right,” said Henry. “Sorry.”
And he did. He walked back around Alex, and back through the door. Alex watched him go, noting the way he turned back and gave Alex a small smile as he went.
Mrs Winterbourne, the woman next door, was just walking down the street too. She gave Alex a conspiratorial look.
“Oh, they’re awful, aren’t they?” she asked.
“What?” asked Alex.
“The Jehovah’s Witnesses,” she said. “Never invite them in, Alex. You’ll never get rid of them.” She tutted to herself, and went on her way.
Alex looked back at Henry’s retreating back. What on Earth had just happened?
…
By the evening, Alex had convinced himself he’d been chatted up by a closeted Jehovah’s Witness, who had enough confidence to ask Alex out but not enough to let his two lives meet. He’d been going around on the mission to recruit new Jehovah’s Witnesses, as was expected, but when he’d seen Alex he’d been wowed by Alex’s good looks (hey, Alex was above averagely attractive, it was possible) and had tried to ask him out instead. Because what else could have happened? Even if Henry were up to no good, if he were some sort of villain hell-bent on world domination or something, what could he have to gain by standing in Alex’s hallway for a bit?
Henry didn’t even see the table of increasingly unlikely leads. He was nothing to do with anything. Alex wasn’t even officially working on any case right now, so it was hardly likely to be an enemy agent at work.
Alex made himself some scrambled egg and was eating it with toast when he realised there was someone else in the house.
It was not sound that let him know. It was a slight shift in the air, the result of a door or window open in another room, maybe a tiny change in the air temperature or the feeling of a soft breeze. He stood in a hurry, dinner abandoned, and listened hard.
There were no sounds except those to be expected on a London street. The quiet roar of traffic permeated the whole city, noises of people living their lives on top of each other. They could have been enough to disguise the footsteps of someone skilled enough.
Not for the first time, Alex wondered why he hadn’t found a way to hide a weapon in the house. Maybe not a gun, but something to make him feel less vulnerable. So, he listened, hard, strained for any sign of movement, any shift in the air, any breath. And when he didn’t hear any, he went to the place where the nearest thing to a weapon was. The kitchen.
The hallway was dark now, and there was no sign of anybody, no movement, nothing seemed to be moved, but Alex didn’t stop to check. He hurried on, throwing the door to the kitchen open and hurried to the draw where the knives were kept.
He’d barely got a grip on one when a hand closed around his throat.
“Drop it,” said a quiet voice in his ear.
He didn’t obey immediately. He raised the knife, ready to defend himself, but a second hand closed around his wrist.
“Drop it,” the voice repeated. “Now.”
Alex considered his options very quickly. The knife was useless to him right now anyway, with his arm trapped and his throat vulnerable. If he got his wrist free, he could cause some superficial wounds, but the hand on his neck was tightening as he deliberated.
He dropped the knife.
As the metal clanged against the work surface, Alex was pulled around, and his back was pressed against the wall before the knife had even stilled.
At least he saw his captor.
“I thought you were never planning to see me again.”
“Don’t make me angry, little Alex,” said Yassen Gregorovich. His hands pressed Alex’s wrists against the wall. “Did you have a visitor this afternoon?”
Alex didn’t answer right away. He searched Yassen’s face for hints.
“Why would that bother you?” he asked. “You didn’t think I needed to know you were alive for the more than seven years, but you think you get to know who I hang out with?”
Yassen pressed closer. “Do you think this is a game, little Alex? You’re child in a man’s world. How many ways can I kill you, little boy?”
“Dozens, I’m sure,” said Alex. “But you wouldn’t do it to save your own life, so I don’t think you’re going to, now.”
“Quite a gamble,” said Yassen.
Alex shivered.
“As you say, it’s been seven years, little Alex, and I would be a fool not to have learned from that mistake.”
He transferred both Alex’s wrists into his one hand. The other, once again, gripped Alex’ throat. “Answer my question.”
Alex fought to keep his breath steady. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “I’m not a threat to you. You could just ask me.”
Yassen snorted. “You’re not a threat to me? Alex Rider, you destroyed me.”
Alex blinked. “What do you mean?” he asked. “I didn’t tell you to work for Damien Cray, I didn’t do anything except try to save people.”
Yassen huffed again, a sardonic smile on his lips, but it vanished quick enough, when he spun Alex around, and shoved his face against the wall.
“Did someone visit you today?”
“Why are you asking?”
Yassen took a hold of Alex’s left arm. “You’re confident I won’t kill you, but are you sure I won’t hurt you?” He pulled the arm backwards until Alex grunted. “There are lots of ways to get you to talk, little Alex. Don’t you want to protect yourself from them?”
Alex closed his eyes. “I would have just told you,” he said. “If you’d just asked, I’d have just told you.”
“Then tell me,” said Yassen.
“You can’t trust it now,” said Alex. “But yes. I had a visitor.”
Yassen stood back, just a little. “What did he look like?”
Alex thought it through. “You already know,” he said, “or you wouldn’t be here.”
“I need to be certain,” said Yassen. “What did he look like?”
Alex paused, just to see what Yassen would do. The grip on his arm tightened.
“Young, white, brown hair,” said Alex. “But we’re not on the same side, now, so I could be lying.”
Yassen let him go. Alex spun back around and gave him the full force of his glare.
“We were never on the same side, Alex Rider,” said Yassen. “People around me would kill you without batting an eyelid.”
“But not you,” said Alex.
“That won’t protect you,” said Yassen. “If that man comes back, run the other way.”
“Why?” asked Alex. “Who is he?”
Yassen’s grip suddenly returned, but this time to Alex’s face. “Just do as you’re told, for once,” he said. “If you’re so certain I won’t kill you, then listen to what I am telling you.”
“I want to see you again,” said Alex.
Yassen let him go, fingers snapping back as though they were burnt.
“If you want me to follow your orders, you need to give me a reason,” said Alex. “You could tell me why I should run from this guy, or you can offer me something in return.”
“You want money?” said Yassen.
“I want to see you again,” Alex repeated. “I want you to come over and eat with me, and talk.”
Yassen sniffed again. “You have grown up reckless and confident, little Alex,” he said. “But you do not have power here.”
“Are you telling me that, or are you telling yourself?” Alex asked.
“Good bye, Alex Rider,” said Yassen Gregorovich.
“No,” said Alex. He grabbed Yassen’s sleeve.
“No?”
“Stay,” said Alex. “Stay with me. Talk to me. I need to know.”
“Know what?” asked Yassen.
Who was he working for? What were they doing? How bad was it going to be? How could Alex stop them? When would Alex see him again? How could Alex see him again. “Do you love me?”
Yassen Gregorovich stood silently in Alex’s kitchen for ten whole seconds. Then he turned and walked away.
But this time, Alex was ready.
…
Following an operative of Yassen’s talent and experience would have been impossible. He would have been far too aware of his surroundings, far too good at doubling back and vanishing into crowds or a thousand other tricks that Alex had yet to discover. But Alex had decided to try, and in a moment of optimism, he’d taken a precaution to tip the balance in his favour.
He was amazed that he’d had any sort of success. How he’d managed to grab Yassen’s arm and attach MI6’s tiny tracking device to the sleeve of Yassen’s coat without the assassin realising what he was doing. Yassen was relying on the fact he’d taken Alex by surprise, which was true, but Alex had been planning for this ever since the bank. He had been determined that Yassen Gregorovich would not vanish from his life again.
The second Yassen Gregorovich was out of his sight, Alex opened the app on his phone that tracked the device. He watched as the twinkling light vanished down his street, and then dashed out to grab his bike.
Alex, of course, had a driver’s licence now. He was twenty-four, and there had been a hundred times when he was a child when being able to drive would have made his life a thousand times easier, but London, even at night, was full of pitfalls for someone reliant on a car, and so he had kept up his pushbike. He could sneak around traffic, he could park it almost anywhere, though he sometimes couldn’t keep up, there were very few roads in London where people regularly reached thirty without any traffic lights, and he could turn on a penny, dash through short cuts and side streets. Smither’s App worked like a GPS tracker, which he could attach to the handlebars and listen to a polite voice in his ear. It led him down the street, then to the right, all the time keeping Yassen far enough ahead that he wouldn’t see Alex tailing him.
Then it all went very suddenly wrong. Alex was just speeding up, going straight past a junction, when a car sprang from nowhere to his left. Alex just avoided an actual collision, and the driver slammed on his breaks, but Alex lost control and went down. He was lucky; though he scraped his right forearm, his head didn’t hit the ground.
The driver clambered out, swearing and apologising. Alex swore, too.
“Are you OK? I didn’t see you.” The driver swore again.
“I’m OK,” said Alex, clambering to his feet. “It’s just a scratch.”
“Hi,” said another voice.
The passenger had got out of the back of the car.
“I’m sorry Sir,” said the driver. “I didn’t see him.”
“I know,” said Henry, the visitor. “Are you OK? It’s Alex, right?”
“Yeah,” said Alex.
“You let me use your loo, and then I tried to chat you up and freaked you out a bit?”
“Yeah,” said Alex. “I remember. It was this afternoon.”
Henry laughed. “Look, I’m so sorry,” he said. “It was totally our fault. I was telling Amir to hurry up, so it’s not just him. Though I will fire him if you want me to.”
“Uh, no thank you,” said Alex. He checked whether Amir looked upset, but he was either a consummate professional or just ignored the comment.
“Look, can we give you a lift? Maybe to A and E or something?”
“No, I don’t need…”
Yassen had told him to run. This man was something to do with Yassen. Had it actually been an accident? Henry couldn’t possibly have known that Alex was going to be passing.
“I’m fine, really,” said Alex. “I do need to be getting on.”
He looked back at his phone. The impact had cracked the screen.
“We can drive you wherever,” said Henry. “It was our fault.”
“No, thank you,” said Alex. “You were in a hurry, right?”
“Well,” said Henry, “It’s nothing as important as making sure you’re OK.”
“No, it’s fine,” said Alex. “Really. I need to go order a new phone.”
“I’ll buy you a new one!”
Henry smiled at Alex’s confused look. “Seriously, it’s the least I can do.”
“Um, you don’t have to, seriously,” said Alex, because it was what you were supposed to do, and because he was supposed to be running anyway, but a new phone was an expense he did not need.
“What type have you got?” Henry asked.
“Um.” Alex could avoid being bought a phone just by hiding his phone. He didn’t.
“Great,” said Henry. “Just keep an eye out for it. I’ll get it delivered.”
He should say no. He should thank Henry but say no, because you can’t take a phone from a really strange man who an international assassin you’ve met about six times over seven years has warned you to run away from.
“Um…” said Alex, “I should probably… go.”
“Are you sure?” asked Henry. “We can drive you.”
“It’s literally round the corner,” said Alex. He picked up his bike.
“I know,” said Henry.
Alex felt a thrill of fear. This guy, the interest he was showing, made him feel strangely vulnerable. Alex was pretty good at looking out for himself; he could win a fight with most people these days, he could outsmart the rest. But he knew that because of how many people had tried to hurt him. Some of the worst had started off trying to seem his friend.
“It’s Henry?” Alex asked. “Henry…?”
It took a fraction of a second too long for Henry to answer. “Henry Johnson,” he said. He put a hand forward for Alex to shake, and Alex transferred the bike to his left hand so he could shake with his right. Johnson was not this guy’s name. Alex needed another way to find out who he was. He made a note of the number plate, and wished he’d kept a spare tracker.
…
“You want us to search all the CCTV within half a mile of your address?”
Mrs Jones was not using her ‘that’s a good idea’ tone of voice. It was her ‘that’s an incredibly unreasonable suggestion you’re making’ voice.
“We need to find out who this Henry guy is,” said Alex.
“Alex, that would take dozens of agents off their important day jobs for weeks.”
“This is important, Mrs Jones,” Alex pointed out.
“Is it?” asked Mrs Jones. “They’re robbing nightclubs and banks for a couple of hundred each time. The police are already on the case.”
“They’ve got Yassen Gregorovich working for them!”
“Yes, I know.” Mrs Jones, shook her head. “What happened with the tracking chip?”
“Well, he found it, obviously,” said Alex, grumpily. “When I got home it was floating down the river.”
Mrs Jones watched him for a moment, as though she were trying to pick out the best words. “Alex, do you want to know what other agents are reporting about Gregorovich?”
Other agents? thought Alex. Since when were they any good? “What?”
“That Yassen Gregorovich is a has been.”
Alex’s mouth dropped open. He’d heard less shocking blasphemy.
“I know, he’s been such an important figure in your life, Alex, but he’s really done nothing in years. Half our sources hadn’t even heard of him, and the older ones shrugged and suggested he’d retired or died. This could be exactly what it looks like. A little gang on a minor crime spree, hoping to make a quick, low risk buck, that’ll get picked up by the police in time.”
“Or, it could be a new and terrifying plot to take over the world,” said Alex.
Mrs Jones’ eyebrows flicked ever so slightly. Alex knew that look. It meant she thought he was a bit crazy. Well, if he was, it was mostly her fault.
“I’m going to carry on investigating,” he said. “And when people start dying, you’re going to be pleased you had someone on the case.”
Mrs Jones sighed. “If you want, Alex. I have other assignments but I can put them off for a few days.”
“But… I’ve got to find out what Gregorvich is up to.”
“Fine. One week.”
“Mrs Jones…”
“Alex,” Mrs Jones snapped. “There are real threats to people’s safety out there. They are credible and real and they outweigh the schoolboy crush you have on your father’s friend.”
Alex’s mouth seemed to have forgotten how to close.
Mrs Jones looked apologetic. She sighed. “I’m sorry, Alex, we can’t spare you any longer than that.”
“Fine,” Alex snapped, standing up. “I’ll do it without you. I usually do anyway.”
Mrs Jones sighed, but didn’t rise to his bait. “One week,” she said. “Seriously, there are genuine terrorist plots we need to infiltrate.”
It took the wind out of Alex’s sails just a little. What if he were putting people’s lives on the line when Yassen Gregorovich wasn’t doing anything much? But he was confident. No way was Yassen Gregorovich a has-been. He’d been low profile while he recovered from his injuries, which probably took ages because he’d been shot in the chest. He was clearly part of something, and his presence suggested it was something big.
“I told you how he broke into my house and warned me off,” said Alex.
“Yes, Alex,” said Mrs Jones. “I keep suggesting that you move.”
“That’s not the point,” said Alex.
…
Yassen Gregorovich was waiting for him in the living room.
Alex considered just jumping on him and holding him on the ground until he confessed the entire dastardly plot, but he wasn’t sure his full weight would knock Yassen off his feet. It would be potentially undignified.
“I told you to run,” said Yassen Gregorovich.
“Run where?” said Alex. “He knows where I live.”
“Then move,” said Gregorovich.
“Not you too,” said Alex. “I’m not moving house just because another psychopath knows where I live. Is he the guy running your little petty-crime gang?”
“I told you, I will not answer your questions,” said Gregorovich. “Go pack.”
“Pack?” Alex repeated. “Are you taking me on holiday?”
“I’m taking you to a safe house until you learn to stop putting yourself in danger,” said Gregorovich. “Now pack. You have thirty seconds.”
“I don’t have to do as you tell me,” Alex pointed out. “I don’t do what my boss tells me, and my boss has command of the SAS.”
“I am an experienced and skilled assassin,” said Gregorovich.
“Who, we have established, will take me to a safe house rather than kill me,” said Alex. “So, what is this Henry guy even trying to do?”
“I can take you without your things,” said Gregorovich.
“Is he trying to take over the world?”
Gregorovich, for once, looked genuinely surprised.
“Ah, so that’s a no,” said Alex, please with himself. “Is he trying to blackmail vast amounts of money from a government? It’s all practice hostage taking, right?”
Yassen huffed. “You would not believe me if I told you.”
“Try me,” said Alex.
“We’re going now,” said Gregorovich. “You wasted your packing time asking stupid questions.”
He moved forward, graceful but threatening as ever, except Alex was no longer an inexperienced child. He dodged, evaded Gregorovich’s grip.
“Getting old, there, Yassen,” he teased, with a grin.
Gregorovich’s eyes narrowed. “Do you know how much easier my life would be if I’d just shot you on that rooftop?”
Alex nodded. “Do you love me?”
Gregorovich’s next move was clumsy. Alex felt a thrill that he could get under that armour, and dodged again, this time getting past Yassen and out into the hallway.
“We don’t have time for this!” Yassen growled.
“Then stop trying to kidnap me!” Alex shouted over his shoulder, as he threw the door open and ran down the street.
“Alex!”
Alex didn’t stop. He ran, turning at the end of the road, laughing when he heard Yassen call him something insulting in Russian, and made a quick journey to the high street, where he stopped outside a café and waited for Yassen to catch up.
It didn’t take long.
Yassen skidded to a halt and brushed himself down. “Alex Rider, you are playing with fire.”
Alex shrugged.
“You think I won’t take you here because there are witnesses? Every secret service in the world has a photo of me on their wall, and yet I travel wherever I want. I can…”
“Word on the street is that you’ve lost it,” Alex interrupted.
Gregorovich bristled.
“Apparently, you’re a has-been.”
Gregorovich had a gun in his hand before Alex had registered any movement. “You want to make it easier for me to kill you?”
Alex eyed the gun. “No,” he said.
“You will walk back to my car. You will get in, as you are, and you will wait at the safe house until I tell you that you can go.”
“Or you’ll shoot me?” Alex asked.
“Or I’ll shoot someone,” said Gregorovich.
That was a whole new threat. Gregorovich might have had a soft spot for Alex, but he hadn’t turned over a new leaf. He’d hadn’t stopped killing people in general. Would he kill a random person just to get Alex to do as he was asked? Could Alex even take that risk.
Alex nodded, raising his hands slightly to show his surrender.
He allowed himself to be marched back to his own street. He looked at Gregorovich for confirmation of which car was his, but he saw a different expression on Gregorovich’s face.
Alex decided he needed to learn more Russian swearwords if they were going to keep seeing each other.
A van had appeared at the end of the street. Gregorovich grabbed Alex’s T-shirt, and tugged him back the other way, but there was another car there. One that Alex recognised.
“Oh, shit,” said Alex.
Henry not Johnson, gun in hand, emerged from the passenger seat. He’d decided to make his move.